Without question, the best guitarist I ever witnessed in person was Danny Gatton.

And I’ve seen some great ones. Jeff Beck and Stevie Ray Vaughan, together in “The Fire Meets the Fury” tour of 1989… Vaughan was always a force of nature, but ultimately a little predictable. Beck was a revelation, though – even playing the dreaded jazz-fusion. I had no idea he could summon all those incredible sounds from his Stratocaster with just bare fingers against strings, and very few special effects.

Dickey Betts had so much presence and authority before he got the boot from the Allman Brothers Band. Maybe substance abuse does make you a more interesting guitar player (Clapton, anyone?). Speaking of substances, I also had the good fortune of wandering into a Grateful Dead show in Cleveland back in ‘73. Jerry Garcia sounded amazing toward the end of the concert. Too bad I had to sit through a three-hour sound check to get there.

On a smaller (small club, that is) scale, Gatemouth Brown was the most naturally gifted, effortlessly soulful player I’ve seen. I remember watching him duel with Roy Clark on TV’s “Hee-Haw.” Clark was pretty hot too – but you could see Roy sweat with every single note. Gatemouth would tear him to shreds while looking like he was waiting for someone to serve him a drink.

Brother James and I stumbled across the Nighthawks, with the great Jimmy Thackery on guitar, at the Rome Inn in Austin, TX. He took the small crowd on a side trip to virtually every musical landmark in America – Memphis, Clarksdale, Chicago, New York (Mickey Baker) and L.A. (Johnny “Guitar” Watson) and left us begging for more. I’m glad I saw him in his prime.

Young Danny Gatton

I’ve seen Muddy, Hooker, B.B., Lonnie Mack, Roy Buchanan, Mick Taylor with the Stones, nine-string freakshow Charlie Hunter… But when it came down to sheer virtuosity and feeling, Gatton was the man. He could burn with mind-numbing speed, and then slow down to caress a timeless theme like Harlem Nocturne or Melancholy Serenade. Simply put, he was a master of his instrument. But more important, he mastered every major form of American roots music – blues, jazz, country, rockabilly, western swing… Did I mention that Gatton was the man?

Like Buchanan, Thackery and another one of my favorite pickers, Evan Johns (who gained little renown with his band, the H-Bombs), Gatton was a product of the fertile roots music scene in and around our nation’s capital. And fittingly, I first saw him play at a club right off of Pennsylvania Ave.

Physically, Gatton was not an imposing figure. He was a pudgy little guy with smallish fingers that looked like they had no business strangling a Fender. He wouldn’t bother with badass poses or a bad attitude, preferring to flash an occasional goofy smile while destroying every convention of the three-sets-and-out (and carry your own shit to the van) bar-band routine. Gatton’s playing seemed to transcend his physical presence and everything around him – including the crappy dives that kept him in business.

I won’t get into the usual Gatton-related discussions regarding gear (like many of his country music idols, he preferred the Telecaster, and he invented his own special effect called the Magic Dingus box) or technique (he often used “banjo rolls” to sound like a small army of guitar players). Suffice it to say, Gatton could do virtually anything he wanted with an electric guitar. And if you had a basic appreciation of the instrument, seeing Gatton live in a small club was truly a life-altering experience.

He named one of his instrumentals Funhouse, which is a perfect word to describe a Danny Gatton performance. Jaw-dropping be-bop figures would segue into soaring blues runs, which would then dissolve into the carnival-like sounds of a Frank Zappa-influenced composition. The guy clearly had a boundless love for all forms of American music, and he claimed to have a weakness for the Blue Note recordings of Art Blakey and his Jazz Messengers. But he was especially dangerous playing rockabilly, which seemed to synthesize all of the great influences he absorbed growing up in a city with a cosmopolitan spirit and a southern heart (let’s not forget D.C.’s location relative to the Mason-Dixon Line): 88 Elmira St.

That cut was from one of two solid but fairly slick albums he recorded in the early ’90s for a major label (Elektra). Gatton worked long and hard to taste that success, having slogged his way through countless bars and a few questionable record deals. He started out in the mid-‘70s playing what he liked to call “Redneck Jazz” (the title of his second album, on the small NRG Records label). And he usually recorded with a worthy foil, like fellow guitar shredder Johns or the outstanding pedal steel player Buddy Emmons. Here’s Gatton and Emmons dueling on a tune by Hammond B3 maestro Jack McDuff… Rock Candy

Amos Garrett, himself no slouch on guitar, gave Gatton the nickname “The Humbler.” If one of his bandmates would start to get a little cocky after a gig, Garrett would whip out a tape of “The Humbler” blazing his way through one of his legendary live performances. I guess it was just Garrett’s way of keeping everyone honest, including himself.

As Gatton’s reputation grew, he added more session work to his busy schedule of bar and club gigs. Among other artists, he recorded with country star Roger Miller, rockabilly singer Robert Gordon and moody rocker Chris Isaak – although you’d be hard-pressed to find Gatton in the final mix of Isaak’s “San Francisco Days” album (another one of those effectively sparse productions from Isaak). I’m guessing he provided the whacked-out fills on this cut: Beautiful Homes/Chris Isaak with Danny Gatton(?)

Sometime in the mid-‘80s, I dragged a friend to see Gatton at a little club in Manhattan called U.S. Blues. We recognized a few other musicians in the crowd, including a couple from Bob Dylan’s touring band. But that night, they were just like the rest of us – standing there in awe of Danny Gatton. We barely moved for two hours, having planted ourselves about 10 feet from the front of the stage. And although I’ve played guitar for years, I still struggle trying to describe the experience to other musicians. It’s like closing your eyes and hearing a musical conversation among all your favorite guitarists, then opening them to realize it’s all coming from one guy – and he looks like your auto mechanic.

Apparently, Gatton’s unique genius was fueled by a fair amount of pain. And the professional indignities of being “the world’s greatest unknown guitarist” must have been more than he could bear, especially after he lost his record deal with Elektra. In 1994, Gatton shot himself dead at his home in Maryland – only a few miles from the small clubs where he first honed his chops.

Several months later, Les Paul, James Burton, Albert Lee and other six-string legends paid tribute to Gatton during a series of shows in New York that helped raise money for his widow and daughter. But even a roomful of celebrities couldn’t erase the humbling reality that Danny Gatton, a true giant of the electric guitar, remained a virtual unknown in the world of music.

We’ll close with this cut from the appropriately named album “Unfinished Business”: Melancholy Serenade

Danny Gatton on video… Thankfully, there are enough Gatton freaks out there to keep the youtube beast fed for years. Here’s some schtick that never gets old – from a 1991 performance on Austin City Limits (one of nephew Dan’s favorite Gatton clips):

For all you guitar-pickers out there, here’s a five-minute lesson from the master… Remember, if you can’t find your tuner, the dial tone on your phone is an F!

Call it “supper club blues” if you want. Just don’t call it second-rate.

Charles Brown is one of those artists who helps make the case that blues is a diverse art form – with the opposite end of the spectrum being someone like, say, helmeted wildman Bob Log III… someone who writes a song called Boob Scotch, and it requires no metaphorical analysis whatsoever.

Brown, on the other hand, wrote and performed blues that could be described as urbane and at times elegant, but rarely without substance. And the best of his songs convey a depth of feeling that can match anything in the John Lee Hooker catalog… Black Night

Born in Texas City, TX, in 1922, Brown was classically trained on the piano as a child. Then he got a taste of the good stuff – especially after he moved to Los Angeles during World War II and was exposed to the city’s bustling, blues-based nightclub scene. At that time, R&B and blues legends like Big Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, Wynonie Harris and Pee Wee Crayton were rockin’ the clubs along L.A.’s Central Avenue. And Brown combined that visceral sound with his more refined tendencies, creating a unique melding of sophistication and soul that defined his music over the next five decades.

Brown’s classic stuff was recorded from 1945 up to the heyday of rock ‘n roll in the mid-‘50s, and mostly on the L.A.-based Modern and Aladdin labels. You can hear a strong Nat King Cole influence in these recordings, with a heavy emphasis on softly crooned ballads. And that was the intended effect – Brown started out as a piano player for guitarist Johnny Moore, whose brother, Oscar, played guitar for Cole. Johnny Moore’s Three Blazers were hoping to capture some of that “Sepia Sinatra” magic themselves, with that same warm and accessible sound.

But Brown was far bluesier than Cole. As R&B legend Johnny Otis points out in his book “Upside Your Head! Rhythm and Blues on Central Avenue,” Brown’s career was launched by a tune that had very little to do with the Cole songbook (Otis played drums on this milestone session with Brown): “At first, Charles was reluctant to record ‘Driftin’ Blues’ because it was based on a gospel song his grandmother had taught him. We had a hard time convincing him that it was alright to adapt a gospel song to a blues love song. When he finally agreed, he poured his heart into the record – not in the Nat King Cole manner – but in that deep and soulful style that soon had many young R&B singers trying to sound like him.” Driftin’ Blues

One of those young singers was Ray Charles, and it’s interesting to listen to Charles’ early recordings on the Swing Time label. Apparently, Ray Charles had bet the house on Charles Brown, just as Brown did with Cole: Blues Before Sunrise/Ray Charles

Brown had a great run during the late ‘40s and early ‘50s, becoming one of the most popular artists of the era. He scored number one R&B hits with Trouble Blues and Black Night, and several of his other tunes – including Hard Times, Seven Long Days, Get Yourself Another Fool and, of course, Driftin’ Blues – cracked the top 10. In his book “The Real Rhythm and Blues,” British music writer Hugh Gregory underscores the significance of Driftin’: “…it made the blues cool – the blues would no longer be associated with down-home hicks from the sticks.” An arguable point, but still valid.

Charles Brown, the lean years

But the arrival of rock ‘n roll in the mid-‘50s didn’t bode well for Brown, who suddenly found himself on the wrong end of the youth curve. He made a few game attempts to toughen up his sound – recording one session in 1956 with the crème de la crème of New Orleans musicians, including the great Earl Palmer on drums and the powerful horns of Lee Allen and Red Tyler. And although the session was a success from a creative standpoint, songs like I’ll Always Be In Love With You didn’t exactly light up the charts: I’ll Always Be In Love With You

One thing that sustained Brown through the Sixties and Seventies was his fortuitous decision to record a couple of Christmas novelty songs. The first, Merry Christmas, Baby, was recorded in 1956 near the end of his tenure with Aladdin records, and the second was waxed in ’61 on the Cincinnati-based King label. Here’s a taste: Please Come Home For Christmas

So although these holiday songs kept him booked and on the road over the next couple decades, he became sort of a footnote in the history of R&B – a towering figure to other legends like Johnny Otis and Ray Charles, but largely unknown in the public eye.

All that changed in 1989, when an album he cut for the obscure Blue Side label was picked up by Alligator Records, which was riding high with a string of blues-based albums that sounded like they were recorded with an Eighties rock rhythm section. Brown’s album, “One More For The Road,” was a complete throwback – unlike anything else on Alligator’s catalog. And it set the stage for one of the most remarkable second acts in music history.

Brown eventually signed on to the Bullseye label, a blues subsidiary of Rounder Records. And it probably had a lot to do with the strength of “One More For The Road” – as well as the unqualified support of long-time fan Bonnie Raitt, who later toured and recorded with Brown. One could argue that he had emerged from the lean years as an even stronger and more formidable talent. His voice certainly had more edge and weight, and his piano playing had evolved from satisfying to awe-inspiring. Listen to the incredible opening to I Stepped in Quicksand. I Stepped in Quicksand

There’s a lot to love from this second phase of Brown’s career, but I’m partial to his 1990 release, “All My Life,” which includes a fine guest appearance by Dr. John. Credit goes to guitarist Danny Caron, who served as Brown’s arranger and musical director throughout the comeback, and Bullseye producer/fellow keyboard player Ron Levy, who resisted the temptation to make Brown sound even remotely contemporary. “All My Life” is a wide-ranging album that moves from unaccompanied ballads to full-blown R&B gems like this one, with Dr. John on organ: That’s A Pretty Good Love

Brown was signed by the Verve jazz label in ’94 and released three more albums before he passed away in 1999. Their most obvious strengths are Brown’s voice and piano playing, both of which had only gotten better with age. I’ll close with this cut from his first Verve release, “These Blues” – a great example of the cool sound of Charles Brown: A Sunday Kind of Love

Charles Brown on video… probably from the early ’90s – with Danny Caron on guitar.

And just in case you were wondering what Bob Log sounds (and looks) like:

Kevin and Tim tag-team on this piece about an American classic that still gets a lot of action some 50 years after it first hit the scene.

It can sneak up on you: that warm, soothing yet crunchy keyboard from the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. That would be the unmistakable tone of the greatest of all the electric pianos: The Fender Rhodes.

But first, a definition… Invented by Harold Rhodes in the 1940s, the instrument is a bastard offspring of the celeste and the electric guitar. Since we’re inherently lazy, we’ll let the good folks at “wordIQ” take it from here: “The action is similar to that of a conventional piano, but whereas in a conventional piano each key causes felt-covered hammers to strike a set of strings, in a Rhodes piano they strike a tuning fork-like construction to sound the note. The tuning forks themselves are ‘unbalanced’ or asymmetrical: one arm consists of a short, stiff metal rod (essentially a stiff wire) called a ‘tine’ which is struck by the hammer, and the other arm is a tuned resonator resembling a piece of metal bar stock, sized to sound the appropriate note. The actual sounded note is too soft to be practical, so each tine vibrates in front of an electric-guitar-style magnetic pickup. The pickup’s output is fed to an amplifier which can be adjusted to produce the desired volume.” Got it? Class dismissed.

Basically, it’s an electronic keyboard, but the workings are purely mechanical, like each key physically ringing a bell. So you get that natural, clicking sound – like the earthy scratch and itch of a great old electric guitar. Then add a vintage tube amplifier for that warm, organic sound that just makes people feel good, almost instantly.

The Fender company – source of the Telecaster, Stratocaster, Super Reverb amp and other great wonders of the modern world – began manufacturing the instrument in 1959 under an agreement with Harold Rhodes. And jazz pianist Bill Evans was an “early adopter,” later pairing it with his ever-present Steinway on his 1970 release, “From Left to Right.” In his interpretation of What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life, his left hand caresses the precise, time-honored acoustic grand piano keys, while the right dances across the Rhodes – a musical peace summit between clashing generations. What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life/Bill Evans

Hank Jones, Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and Joe Zawinul also signed on, each adding the Rhodes to their arsenals, each heading in new directions. With Return to Forever, Corea worked the keys as foundation, lead and atmosphere. But his most influential recordings on the Rhodes were with Miles Davis’ first all-electric bands. Here Corea states one of the main themes to a moody original by Zawinul that gave the title to Miles’ 1969 release, “In a Silent Way”: In A Silent Way/Miles Davis

Zawinul plays organ on that cut – the same instrument that he used to drive another original that became an unlikely hit for Cannonball Adderley in ’66, Mercy, Mercy, Mercy (Zawinul also struck gold with Weather Report when his song Birdland became one of the most recognizable of the ‘70s). But just like Corea, he cut his jazz-rock teeth playing with Miles. On this next cut, you can hear the two-Rhodes attack of Zawinul and Corea wreaking havoc on a funky workout from Miles’ classic “Bitches Brew” (Zawinul is in the left channel, Corea the right)… Miles Runs the Voodoo Down/Miles Davis

That great Rhodes sound wasn’t confined to smoky jazz clubs and studios. Motown’s keyboard titan and Funk Brother, Earl Van Dyke, added the Rhodes to hit songs with Marvin Gaye, The Temptations and Smokey Robinson. And you couldn’t miss the Rhodes sound in 1969 – turn on any radio and you’d hear Billy Preston sitting in on keys with that little band from Liverpool: Get Back/The Beatles

Down in Memphis, Booker T. Jones spent most of his working hours at the Hammond B-3, but in 1971 his sister-in-law Rita Coolidge got him to hit the Rhodes on a song he co-wrote, Born Under a Bad Sign – from her self-titled debut solo effort. Nice backing band, too: Clarence White and Ry Cooder on guitars, Jim Keltner on drums: Rita Coolidge

The Rhodes also played a supporting role on many outstanding soul singles recorded during the Seventies. This next cut is from “Cheatin’ Soul and the Southern Dream of Freedom,” a first-rate collection of country-soul classics pulled together by the zealots who run the Trikont label in Germany. The artist: Ann Sexton, who also served up a song that became a “Northern Soul” hit for the equally zealous Brits – You’ve Been Gone Too Long. But getting back to the Rhodes, we like how it sets the perfect mood as Sexton tells a cheatin’ woman where to get off. Rapper GZA dug it so much, he sampled it on his song Living In The World Today… I’m His Wife (You’re Just A Friend)/Ann Sexton

Barron (striped shirt) in front of Butter

And let’s not forget the blues… We featured this next cut on a recent post about “Born in Chicago” blues-harpist Paul Butterfield. But this time we’ll focus on the song’s Rhodes solo, played by New Orleans singer and keyboard legend Ronnie Barron. Word has it that Barron was a major influence on Dr. John aka Mac Rebennack. We’ll defer to the liner notes from the good doctor’s “Gris-Gris”: “Ever since coming to L.A., Rebennack had hoped to make a concept album of sorts melding various strains of New Orleans music behind a frontman named Dr. John. Mac actually wanted New Orleans singer Ronnie Barron to be the Dr. John character, but when Barron was (fortunately) unavailable, Rebennack took on the Dr. John mantle himself.” Nobody’s Fault but Mine seems to share some of that same voodoo vibe… Nobody’s Fault But Mine/Paul Butterfield’s Better Days

Here’s another Rhodes scholar from the much-maligned Seventies. We didn’t buy Jeff Beck’s all-instrumental album “Blow By Blow” for the keyboard playing (did anyone?), but Max Middleton sure nails it on his composition, Freeway Jam. Great to hear all the instruments up in the mix… anyone still do that these days? Freeway Jam/Jeff Beck

Norah Jones, (the non-Jeff Beck) Beck, The Roots, Don Fagen’s little combo and many other contemporary artists continue to employ these battered, old, vintage warhorse Fender Rhodes in their live and studio work. (Radiohead’s Morning Bell from “Kid A,” for example, is an electric keyboard throwback with a modern sensibility.) But no other current band works the Rhodes harder than Nashville’s junkyard brawling duo, Black Diamond Heavies (and I think we’ve found the demon seed of Captain Beefheart and Marianne Faithfull). Here’s a live version of a tune from “A Touch of Someone Else’s Class,” produced and recorded in West Akron by RCR correspondent and part-time musician Dan Auerbach:

Article first published as Book Review: Composed: A Memoir by Rosanne Cash on Blogcritics.

Our last post on living, breathing artists led me to another crisis in confidence. Just what is this blog all about? Why keep blathering on about music that, with the possible exception of The Black Keys, most humans simply don’t care about?

Then I came across a passage in Rosanne Cash’s new book, “Composed: A Memoir,” that also could serve as RCR’s mission statement:

“We all need art and music like we need blood and oxygen. The more exploitative, numbing, and assaulting popular culture becomes, the more we need the truth of a beautifully phrased song, dredged from a real person’s depth of experience, delivered in an honest voice; the more we need the simplicity of paint on canvas, or the arc of a lonely body in the air, or the photographer’s unflinching eye. Art, in the larger sense, is the lifeline to which I cling in a confusing, unfair, sometimes dehumanizing world.”

I’ve been a fan of Cash’s ever since “King’s Record Shop” was released back in 1987. And I have to admit, her music doesn’t sit comfortably next to a lot of stuff I listen to. Nor would anyone confuse the writing on this site with the kind of intense, deeply reflective, almost painstakingly eloquent language found in “Composed.” Let me put it this way: Rosanne Cash will not be appearing at a chuckle-hut near you.

But she’s had a long-standing gig at my house. I may have been raised on the Stones, but my daughters were raised on Rosanne Cash – along with other alt-country favorites like Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Dwight Yoakam and Gillian Welch (for some reason, my girls didn’t take to Howlin’ Wolf… although Meghan loves Taj Mahal). Rosanne’s highly literate songs provided the soundtrack to many of our trips south. And even though my youngest eventually moved on to hip-hop and rap, I’m sure she still has a soft spot for Cash’s “The Wheel.” Fire of the Newly Alive

Cash brings the same sensitive touch to “Composed.” And her descriptions of growing up in a musical family especially resonated with me. We’re sort of the Cash family in reverse. Although my brothers and sister remain active and performing musicians (and I’m considering a return to service), all of the fame and notoriety has landed on the next generation as nephew Dan Auerbach – and his musical soulmate in the Keys, Pat Carney – continue their march toward world domination. Granted, they may never be as recognized and beloved as Johnny Cash, but there’s still plenty of time.

Much of “Composed” is about the many ways that fame can change those who enter the celebrity funhouse, either voluntarily (friends and second spouses, for example) or otherwise (immediate family). I enjoyed Rosanne’s stories of the time she spent in London, working in a low-level artists relations job for CBS Records simply because she happened to be Johnny Cash’s daughter. She had no illusions about the experience, perfectly understanding why some people treated her with great deference, and appreciating it when others didn’t. She was determined to make the best of the situation – and her father’s patronage – as she partied her way through a pleasant yet frivolous assignment.

Of course, there are larger themes to “Composed” – including death, motherhood and the challenge of struggling with addictive personalities (a theme that Cash felt was grossly overblown in the movie “Walk the Line”). Another big theme involves sacrifice. What does it take to really make your way in the world as an artist; to build your entire life around creating art, and doing it on your own terms?

Cash is philosophical in describing her own journey from Nashville hit-maker to a well-respected singer-songwriter with her dignity intact. In earnest and artful language, she takes us through the process of starting over again – of leaving behind a certain level of success and comfort to head into the great unknown, with only your creative instincts to guide you. But the true meaning of sacrifice is often revealed in the most mundane details, like the way Cash describes the simple act of flying:

“I have been in planes that have been struck by lightning, surrounded by tornadoes, diverted to new and even more miserably inconvenient destinations; planes whose landing gear failed to descend, engines conked out, wings clipped the ground and spewed rivets across the runway, takeoffs and landings have been aborted in snow and ice storms and violent winds and rain; planes that dropped so fast and so far that people literally hit the ceiling; and once, on a nearly empty late-night flight into Nashville, the pilot sent an attendant back just after the landing to ask me if I knew where Gate 4 was, since he thought I had probably landed at this particular airport more than he had. And I had.”

On more than one occasion, I’ve stared at an opportunity as a full-time traveling musician, and then looked away – mainly because I knew deep down that I couldn’t handle life on the road, especially in a third-tier band. But even a steady string of local gigs can take their toll (especially before the indoor smoking ban took effect). As my wife points out, we were tossed off more than a few social calendars because of my busy playing schedule. And after moving back to town in ’91, I went 10 consecutive years playing shitty (but well-paying) gigs on New Year’s Eve while my wife stayed home to entertain our daughters. Someday I’ll figure out how to make it up to her.

But all this pales in comparison to the act of ripping yourself away from home and family for huge chunks of the year to make money on the road. And touring income has become even more essential for bands today as CD sales are eclipsed by file-sharing and other acts of digital thievery (I confess, I’m not without sin).

Cash doesn’t try to gain our sympathy for millionaire artists. Whether she’s making somber observations about the creative process or describing a major fuck-up at the airport, she’s simply sharing the basic realities of life as a working musician. And, to her credit, she doesn’t make much of a distinction between that pursuit and the art of everyday living – like her late mother’s gardening. It’s just that when you play on a bigger stage, you usually give up a lot more to get there. Thankfully, modern-day road dogs like Cash and The Black Keys still find a way to make it work, so their inspiring shows can help us feel just a little bit better about life on planet earth.

A number of years ago, I read a newspaper column by some Big Gulp-swilling soccer mom that really rubbed me the wrong way. I’ll paraphrase: “Music really mattered when we were kids… Then we grew up, bought houses, had kids of our own, raised families and came to realize music really isn’t that important at all. Now we revel in the music of life.” Or some such drivel.

What I wanted to say to this nitwit was, surely there’s a form of art – movies, painting, gardening, woodworking – that still feeds your soul, no matter how much it’s shrunk over the years. For some of us, that form of art is music. And despite Rubber City Review’s best (and worst) attempts to keep it light, we’re dead serious about the music and artists we love and write about.

Rosanne Cash’s touch is far from light. But I blasted right through the fussiest language in her book – because at its core, “Composed” is all about the serious business of passing rich musical traditions from one generation to the next.

The List… Musical inheritance doesn’t get more real than this: Alarmed by his daughter’s lack of knowledge about American roots music (Rosanne had a good excuse – she grew up in Southern California), Johnny Cash jotted down a list he called “100 Essential Country Songs.” But as Rosanne Cash points out in the liner notes to her latest release, “The List,” “he could have called it ’100 Essential American Songs,’ because he included history songs, protest songs, early folk songs, Delta Blues, gospel, Texas swing, and standards that simply defy genre.” Thirty-five years went by before Rosanne got up the nerve to reinterpret a few of these tunes on record, and the results are a little mixed. The requisite guest artists don’t add much (with the exception of Bruce Springsteen, who brings a wonderful harmony voice to Sea of Heartbreak). But Rosanne’s cover of Motherless Children, by the always popular “Public Domain,” is one of the best versions I’ve heard of a song that has suffered many indignities over the years. And it’s all in the voice – no gospelly histrionics; just an honest, heartfelt read of an American classic: Motherless Children

Other Rubber City Review posts that have appeared on Blogcritics:
o Juliet, Naked… with the Fat Man in the Bathtub (Editors’ Pick)
o The World’s Greatest Advertising Jingle (Editors’ Pick)
o Guns, Drugs, Money and Vinyl… Welcome to School Kids

Those of you who’ve stuck with us over the past year might remember a post I wrote a while back called “Tim’s Top Six.” It was a less-than-subtle attempt to prove that I pay attention to music recorded sometime after the advent of the 8-track tape.

Almost a year has gone by since that post, which gave me just enough time to come up with six more contemporary releases worthy of comment. And when I say “contemporary,” I’m referring to songs recorded and released over the last 10 or so years. What can I say? If you’re looking for urgent missives about the indie band du jour, you’ve come to the wrong place. As my cousin Robert liked to say, “if they’re not dead, I’m not interested.” I’m a little more inclusive than Rob (himself deceased) in that some of the folks I write about technically still have a pulse. But given the choice between listening to Dead Weather or dead blues guys… well, you should know by now where I’m going to land.

Somehow, I missed out on Jimbo Mathus’ previous band, the Squirrel Nut Zippers (maybe I thought they were just another retro-swing band). But his “Knockdown South” release from 2005 certainly got my attention. Mathus is the proprietor of Delta Recording Service, a vintage studio (now in Como, MS) where Elvis Costello and others have gone to try to capture the Sound of the Delta – that timeless, earthy vibe that one wouldn’t typically associate with someone like, say, Elvis Costello. Maybe Mathus should spend more time recording himself. As an unreconstructed son of the South, he sounds perfectly comfortable moving from greasy, juke-joint blues to fatback soul to honky tonk… filtered through cheap guitars and overdriven tube amps squealing for mercy. As the folks at Fat Possum Records in nearby Oxford like to say, not the same old blues crap: Crazy Bout You/Jimbo Mathus

It shouldn’t surprise you that Patty Griffin’s latest, “Downtown Church,” was recorded in an urban place of worship. But the twist here is that I came across this release through the depths of hell – also known as the new season of HBO’s gorefest, “True Blood.” At the end of a recent episode, I was startled to hear Griffin’s version of a Leiber and Stoller tune called I Smell A Rat (Big Mama Thornton ripped it to pieces back in ‘54). Maybe it’s because I’ve always thought of Griffin as a thoughtful and sensitive singer-songwriter – and believe me, there’s a healthy amount of well-mannered material on “Church,” with sympathetic backing from guitarist Buddy Miller and other first-call Nashville cats. But she throws enough soul and swagger into Rat to make me wonder where that voice has been all this time. All I can say is, give me some more… I Smell a Rat/Patty Griffin

Alternative country icon Steve Earle has been very prolific since he emerged from the slammer clean and sober back in ‘94. And prolificacy (much like profligacy) ain’t necessarily a good thing. You can find a fair amount of duds on his recent albums, but let’s at least give him credit for taking the same “throw enough shit against the wall” approach that Phil Collins famously copped to back in his hit-making days – and, creatively speaking, coming up with far better results. Let’s also praise Earle for trying to turn the mandolin into a bona fide rock ‘n roll instrument. I’m sure you recall the hard-driving acoustic riff that opened Earle’s sole hit, Copperhead Road. Pretty cool, but I prefer Harlan Man from “Just an American Boy,” an audio journal (also documented on film) of live performances back in 2002. “I got me two good hands, and as long as I’m able I won’t give in… ‘cause I’m a Harlan Man, a coal-minin’ mother ‘til the day I’m dead.” When it comes to people and mountains, no one writes ‘em like Steve Earle. Harlan Man/Steve Earle

Precious Bryant is the kind of blues artist we need right now. Not some Stevie Ray wannabe trying to shred his way onto the next version of Guitar Hero. Precious plays simple, stripped-down songs, often only accompanied by the soothing sound of her Piedmont-style guitar playing. Songs like Don’t Let The Devil Ride, Morning Train and The Truth. And whether they come from her own pen or “anonymous,” they all sound deeply rooted in southern traditions that modern-day carpetbaggers just can’t kill. Precious hails from Talbot County, Georgia – about 90 miles due west of my mom’s former homestead in Milledgeville… maybe that’s why these gentle blues and gospel songs sound so familiar to me. But her 2005 release – named after her wonderful original, The Truth – adds just enough gutbucket rhythm to rescue it from the realm of ethnomusicology. For that, we can thank the Atlanta-based label Terminus Records, home to the same kind of roots music zealots who are keeping the form alive at Fat Possum. Don’t Jump My Pony/Precious Bryant

British soul crooner and ace guitarist James Hunter caused quite a stir when he released “People Gonna Talk” back in 2006. It seemed to arrive fully formed from some distant land where Sam Cooke somehow emerged alive from the Hacienda Motel and went on to record the album he always wanted to make. You can argue whether “People” is a little too much of a loving tribute… and I have to admit that Hunter’s follow-up, “The Hard Way,” had a little of that “whipping a dead horse” feel (OK, maybe a newly deceased stallion). But I can’t get enough of the originals that Hunter recorded in 2005 at Toe Rag Studios in London, with producer/proprietor/analog wizard Liam Watson at the helm. Hunter spent several years as Van Morrison’s guitarist. I haven’t heard any recent recording by Van the Man that can match the blue-eyed soul that Hunter lays down here (starts in with the guitar solo – one of my all-time favorites)… All Through Cryin’/James Hunter

I’m going back a little further than I want to on this last one – 1998, to be precise. But I completely lock into this tune every time I hear it. Crazyhorse Mongoose was the title song on the second album released by New Orleans-based jazz-funk outfit Galactic. The band’s main weapon is the mighty Stanton Moore on drums. And if you’re partial to Galactic’s herb-influenced, jam-band voodoo, you might want to check out some of the fine, funky stuff Moore’s released under his own name and with other configurations like Garage a Trois (with the amazing 8-string guitarist Charlie Hunter). I’m a little indifferent to some of Galactic’s material, but Crazyhorse sounds to me like a long-lost Blue Note classic. Written by sax player Ben Ellman and bassist Robert Mercurio, it moves seamlessly from one irresistible riff to another. Think Horace Silver jacked up on Red Bull, and maybe a little herb. Crazyhorse Mongoose/Galactic

Precious Bryant on video – probably somewhere in Georgia’s Lower Chattahoochee Valley, playing a tune originally recorded as Me and My Chauffeur Blues by Memphis Minnie in 1941…